


Repairs

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel based off Obsolete by Renaroo</p><p>Your name is Richard Simmons and you’re dying.<br/>	It’s all over your chart. Every last inch is covered with information on how many ways you’re dying.  Your heart is going to give up. Your lone kidney has given up ghost. Your lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen. Your partner hasn’t visited in over a week. <br/>	The last one isn’t killing you. Not officially. But it feels like it most days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repairs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Obsolete](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424792) by [RenaRoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo). 



> I'm sorry. I wrote this in the dead of night. Poorly edited.

Your name is Richard Simmons and you’re dying.

It’s all over your chart. Every last inch is covered with information on how many ways you’re dying.  Your heart is going to give up. Your lone kidney has given up ghost. Your lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen. Your partner hasn’t visited in over a week.

The last one isn’t killing you. Not officially. But it feels like it most days.

You turn over in your hospital bed, making sure not to pull out any of the wires. They’re what keeps you running, keeps you breathing, and the last time you jarred one, you almost passed out. Your tablet is on your bedside table, the red case a gift from Donut, and plop it in your lap. Check your messages.

It’s all rather straight forward. Donut and Doc have secured their plane tickets; they should be here by next week; their daughter makes it tricky to travel these days. The Blues are working on coming as a group, Caboose has trouble traveling, and you hope Caboose brings his service dog. Carolina is already in town, she stopped by a few days ago, to apologize for what has been done to you. You waved her off, she didn’t make your choices, but the sentiment helped all the same.

She also offered to drag Grif here. Make him sit by your bedside and make up. Like adults. That, you turned down. If Grif is going to visit you, you’re going to make him do it on his own terms. Even if you’re old. Even if you’re dying.

You sit there for an hour, scrolling through your messages. Your will is all written up, it was easy enough, you don’t have that much to give away. You’ve contacted your brothers and while they’ve all replied, you doubt you’ll see them. You leave them a few of your military medals anyway.  A fuck you of sorts. Of the man they missed out on.

The nurse comes in and soon pain medication is swirling through your veins. It makes you sleepy, makes you weak, and you’d hate that if it wasn’t for the weight crushing your chest. She leaves before you can tell her to take your tablet, so it sits in your lap, temptation in physical form.

You’re too old for this, you think, as you pull up his name. Too old to be this stubborn. The temptation to say he’s right and get it on with is high. But that would mean agreeing that you should have let Grif die, all those years ago.  And you can’t do that. You could never do that.

So you type a quick message. Just a “I don’t regret it. Miss you.” Press send. Let yourself fall asleep to the sound of your struggling heartbeat and the beeping of machines. Dream of a hot canyon, where you first fell in love.

It’s the best dream you’ve had since winding up here.

* * *

 

Grif shows up the next day.

You can’t help your surprise when he walks through the door, can’t help the smile at the sign of his face, no matter how much you’re supposed to be mad at him. He’s dressed like he usually is, jeans and a t-shirt, the cut short enough to expose his potbelly. There’s a backpack over his shoulder and given how stuffed it is, you assume there’s a set of clothes in there. He looks at you like the sight of you hurts.

“Hey.”

You’d cross your arms if your robotic one was working. You can still make the gesture with your human one, but the idea seems silly in your head. So you just glare. “What are you doing here?”  
You expect an angry retort. Sass. But Grif’s shoulders just slump a little and he walks over to your bed and sits down in the plastic chair he almost broke a week ago. He slings off his backpack and let’s it rest on the floor before pulling out a book. It’s small and cheap, well worn given the curvature of the spine, but you recognize it at once.

“Is that-”

“First Star Wars novel. Yeah. Thought you might be getting bored.”

You open your mouth then close it. The last time you saw Grif, you thought it would be the last time ever. That’d your physical heart would give out while your real heart was miles away. That you two would bicker to your grave, just how you lived. Forced to fighting because of loving too hard. To see him here has taken your words.

Grif leans back in his chair. It creaks at the movement. He licks the his thumb and opens it to one of the pages. It’s gross and you want to complain because “don’t coat my book with your saliva, come’on” but the sight of him looking up at you is enough to shut you up.

“You want me to start at the big fight or the silly romance scene?”

He remembered your favorite parts, you think before licking your lips. “Big fight.”

Grif flips to the page. It’s bookmarked by your own system of multicolored post-its. You never knew that he figured out your system. It’s not surprising; Grif has always been smart, he just rarely wants to apply it.

You feel a little bad that you never thought he’d apply it to the study of you.  

He starts to read and you close your eyes and listen to the words. It’s nice, to hear his voice after all this time. It feels like years; time moves slow in a hospital bed. He does the voices to your surprise, the same he does for Donut’s daughter, and you can’t help but snicker as he takes on the dulcet tones of the main villain. Halfway through the passage he lays his hand on your forehead to brush his fingers through your hair. His wedding ring is cold on your skin.

You fall asleep before the passage is done. You sleep a lot these days, you’re tired all the time. He wakes you up hours later when it’s dark outside, shaking your shoulder. You open your eyes and peer at him in the darkness.

“Grif,” you slur. There’s something different about him, but you can’t make it out. Your brain feels slow and sluggish. Grif’s hand is tangled in your’s now. “Your hand is sweaty.”

Grif makes a noise at that. Your brain wants to register it as a laugh, but there seems to be something off about it. Something a little too broken. He doesn’t let go of your hand though. “I got to head back. Grab some food. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You will?” Grif flinches at that and you don’t understand what you’ve done wrong. The medication makes it hard to think.

“I am-” He doesn’t finish, looking away for a moment. He sniffles like he has a cold. You hope he isn’t sick; with his transplants, illness is a dangerous thing. “Look, smartass, I’ll be back tommorrow, okay? And the next. I’m not going to stop visiting.”

You find that funny for some reason. “Overkill.”

Grif leans forward at that. You can’t see his face which sucks, but he presses a short kiss to your lips that makes up for it. He pulls away before you can enjoy it, though.

“Go to bed, okay? You need your sleep.”

You nod. It is only after the door shuts behind him that you realize your cheeks are wet. You check to make sure you haven’t been crying and when you wipe at your eyes, you find them dry.

It never occurs to you that the tears could have come from someone else.

* * *

 

Grif keeps his promise.

He shows up everyday after that. His tone changes from day to day, some you bicker the same as usual, some he stays silent as a stone. But he shows. He sits in that plastic chair for at least one hour during visiting hours. And for that, you’re thankful.

The others show up too. Caboose does bring his service dog, and the thing is as fluffy as ever. Tucker promises to take Grif out on the town, just to get him moving. Donut sobs all over you like a baby until his own baby comes in, and you enjoy the presence of your niece like you’d enjoy the sun. She’s big now, big enough that she can’t sit on your lap anymore, and you wish your robot hand was working so you could fulfill her request for you to braid her hair.

Kai visits as well. She comes with Grif once or twice on his quiet days but once she shows up on her own. The years have taken some of her joy out of her, not enough to make her any less cheerful, but enough to add a layer of seriousness when she looks at you.

“You’ll take care of him, right?” You ask. “Make sure he’s okay.”

Kai looks at you like you’re an idiot. “He’s going to lose you. Dex is never going to be okay after this.”

Those words echo in your head long after she leaves.  

* * *

 

You take a turn for the worse a month later.

Worse is relative. You don’t feel much worse; after you woke up clawing at your chest, your heart trying to pound it’s way out, you don’t think feeling worse is an option. They medicate you to sleep most days and during the times you’re awake, the world swirls around you like an impressionist painting.

Grif wants to take you home. You know that. You hear him argue about it with your doctors, screaming at the top of his lungs, looking more like a soldier than he ever did in the army. They never yell back, but you catch one snippet.

“We can take care of him better here.”

“ _He’s fucking dying! There is no cure! That’s the point_!”

You don’t remember who said what, but you assume the one with more swears came from Grif.

You wake up one night to find him with his face pressed into your bed sheets. He’s gripping your hand tight with both hands and you feel lucid for long enough to understand the noise he’s making is sobbing. Even though it hurts, you reach over to tilt up his chin. His eyes are red, his face tearstained and covered with snot. He’s always been an ugly crier.

“Dick?” He says and that’s how you know you’ve been out of it recently, that shit has gotten much worse. First names have always been reserved for serious moments of affection or emergencies. You think this might be a combo of both.

“Hey, Dex.” It hurts to talk. You don’t give a shit. You reach up to flick a loose piece of his hair. “Missed you.”

And that’s when Grif loses it. There’s no other word for it. His face crumples all at once, collapsing in on itself and he’s crying on your chest, his fingers clenched in his bedsheets. His talking, you can tell that, and while you have to strain to hear it, it’s worth the effort.

“You’re fucking wrong. You’re a fucking idiot, Dick. A stupid, idiot, and Jesus, I’m not going to be able to do this without you. I’m going to forget how to breathe.” He gasps for breath. “This isn’t fucking worth it. It’s not. Not for me.”

You force yourself to sit up. He tries to stop you but you swat his hands away. Cupping your hand around his jaw, you press a kiss to his forehead. Take in the scent of grease, his favorite body soap, oreos and _Grif_.

This may be the most sappy thing you’ve ever done, you think. You don’t care. You’re dying. If there was a time, it was now.

“You’re always worth it. Everytime,” you say before pulling away. You let go of his chin to put your hand on his heart. “Don’t regret it.”

“You should,” Grif seems to be struggling to breathe. You reach back up for his face and pull him in close. Make sure he’s looking at you. Keep your voice as stern as possible. This is your last command. Marching orders. You have to make it count.

“Never.”

That’s when he kisses you. And while your bones ache and your heart struggles to beat, you decide to never regret this either.

* * *

 

Your name is Richard Simmons and you’re dying.

You probably got a week. Maybe less. You have the letters for your friends ready. You have the will composed. You have a husband that loves you more than anything else.

Your name is Richard Simmons. You’re dying.

But there are worse ways to go.

**  
**


End file.
